chapter three

(Eli)

Getting ready after relapsing is hard—especially in the summer.

The heat clings to everything, and sleeves feel like punishment.

I pull mine down anyway, covering the bloodied arm.

There’s a bandage underneath, but I went too deep last night.

It’s hard to patch now.

The fabric sticks.

Each movement reminds me.

Not just of what I did to him;

but of what I’m still carrying.

I step out into the sun, the heat hitting my skin like punishment; maybe it is.

The sleeve clings to my arm, damp and heavy, hiding what it needs to.

I keep my eyes low. Just another morning. Just another lie , I don't have work. I'm just going to the workshop. I tell myself again and again.

Then I see him.

Leaning against his gate like he’s been waiting.

That same lazy smirk stretched across his face.

Like he knows something.

He lifts a hand in a slow, casual wave.

Too casual,even for a man like him.

My stomach twists into knots.

I nod back—barely. Mechanical. Polite. The kind of politeness that keeps you alive but kills you from inside out.

“Rough night?” he calls out, voice of all sugar and thorns; like a sweet melody but someone put on a phonk song for a minute.

I freeze.

He couldn’t know. He shouldn’t know.

But something in his eyes says otherwise.

His eyes stare me up and down.

I force a smile.

“Just tired.”

He hums, flicks ash from a cigarette; a branded cigarette with platinum stripes, i forgot the word but its the closest to what i think it is.

“Summer heat'll do that to you sometimes.”

He’s still watching.

I turn to leave—back into the house, back into safety—

But before I do, I hear him say, low and soft:

“You should really be more careful with your bandages.”

I pause

“W- what are you talking about?.”

Oh god he knows he knows

My legs go numb like someone pushed the land from beneath my feets.

I whip my head around, fast—like a shot fired from a gun.

He’s already walking toward me, cigarette still pinched between his fingers, steps slow and deliberate—too deliberate.

My voice comes out cracked, trembling, but I stand my ground.

“I’m sorry, but whatever I do… it doesn’t concern you. Why are you even here?”

His expression shifts. And then he smirks.

“I’m a psychologist, sweetheart. I work with people.”

He takes a drag from his cigarette, eyes locked on mine.

“Of course I’m watching you.”

As soon as I hear the word "sweetheart," my head spins.

Why...

Why is this man so keen on talking to me?

And why—despite everything—do I actually like it?

The way he says things.

The way he looks at me like I’m some puzzle he’s already halfway solved;His weirdly calm demeanor.

It should unsettle me.

Maybe it does, but my mind doesn't register it.

a part of me leans in anyway.

I’m a man.

I pause, staring up at him—challenging, testing the waters.

But he doesn’t flinch.

Instead, his face shifts—gets hotter, like the tension snapped between us and somehow turned electric.

So hot my knees almost give out.

I let the silence stretch just a second longer.

Then he smirks,

voice low, steady i say

“It’s better if you stop now… Or the townspeople might start rumors.

And you know better than anyone how rumors spoil your career”

That's right, I never knew his name nor do I plan on asking. It is enough for me to know him well but I really don't wanna know his name .

He laughs—quiet and sharp, like he didn’t expect me to bite back.

The kind of laugh that says “You’ve got teeth.”

“Let them talk,” he murmurs, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette.

“Rumors are just stories people wish were true.”

He leans in, just enough that I catch the scent of him—smoke, something clean underneath it, like soap and fresh mint, straight out of the ground mixed with the high quality tea leaves.

It should make me step back.

I don’t flinch.

Instead, I tilt my head, studying him like I’m trying to figure out which part of him is real and which part wants to play.

He doesn’t look away. Not once.

He’s the type who wants to be seen—dares you to look too long.

I speak again, quieter this time.

“You like watching people?”

He shrugs, exhales smoke through his nose like a dragon hiding behind skin.

“I like knowing what they hide.”

I blink slowly.

“And what do you think I’m hiding?”

A pause.

His eyes move—slowly—from my face to my covered arm, then back again.

He doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

My chest tightens.

For a moment, I hate him for seeing too much.

Then I hate myself for wanting him to look even deeper.

His cigarette burns out.

He drops it, crushes it under his heel, and steps back.

“Next time you want to bleed,” he says, turning away,

“try talking instead.”

And just like that, he walks off—

leaving me on the pavement with my heart pounding and my skin too tight for my body.

I don’t even know his name.

But now I can’t stop thinking about his voice in my ear, like every interaction we had before this one.

It’s close to midnight. The town’s dead quiet—the kind of quiet that feels personal.

I’m waiting. Waiting for the one person I've hated since I moved here 2 years ago.

Sitting on my porch steps, arm wrapped in cleaner bandages now, eyes trained on the street like a hunting dog;with two bottles of whiskey and a shot of vodka

He’s late.

I know he’ll pass this way.

He always does.

And then—

footsteps.

I see him.

Leather jacket. Button-down loose like he doesn’t give a damn.

Cigarette between his lips again, glowing like a single red eye in the dark.

I move without thinking.

Get up.

Cross the yard.

Fast.

He barely reacts when I reach him, just raises an eyebrow—cool and unreadable—until I grab his wrist.

"You never answered me earlier," I say, breath sharp, heart wild.

"What do you think I’m hiding?"

He stops walking.

Looks at my hand on him.

Then up at me.

"You really want to know?"

His voice is low—not mocking this time. Something else.

Curious. Dangerous. Almost...intimate.

I don’t let go.

Neither does he.

"I think," he says, stepping in just enough that I feel his breath near my throat,

"you’re terrified of being touched, but you crave it more than anything else."

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

"Fuck you," I whisper.

His smile curls at the edge.

"You could."

And now we're too close.

Too aware.

The air between us is vibrating, and I can’t tell if I want to punch him or pull him closer.

Maybe both.

"You play a dangerous game," I mutter.

He leans in, lips nearly brushing my ear.

"Only with people who bleed pretty."

He smirks

"Then tell me."

I say while still staring right into his eyes his hazel eyes long lashes chiseled jaw but not too sharp he reminds of someone i can't quite remember .

“Tell you what?sweetheart?”

He says leaning closer and moving his hand to his pocket

“Your name , tell it to me “

I say while backing off making sure we have enough free space in between us , he looks pissed but not from the question maybe just maybe he is angry because i moved away

“Its silas honey, now remember that name when ever you–”

I push my hand on his mouth hurriedly to stop him from speaking. I know what he was gonna say but I don't wanna hear it ; my cheeks flush.

“What about you sweetheart? What's yours?”

I raise an eyebrow, deadpan. I know he knows my name—of course he does. He’s pretending now, playing coy like he doesn’t have it written down somewhere, circled three times in red ink. Like he didn’t already research every inch of me the second we locked eyes in that damn town hall meeting.

This idiot.

“Eli,” I say anyway, dry as hell. “But you already knew that.”

He just hums, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s proud of himself for getting me to say it.

Like he won something.

I don’t look away. Neither does he.

It’s that thing we do—our version of a handshake. A stand-off wrapped in sugar.

“Eli,” he repeats, like he’s trying it on. “Mm. Suits you.”

He leans back slightly, like the moment’s passed. But I know him. That moment didn’t pass—he pocketed it. Stored it somewhere behind his fucking eyes for later use.

That’s how Silas works. He doesn’t collect moments for memories.

He collects them for leverage.

And me?

I should walk away. I should shut this down before it turns into something I can’t control.

But I don’t.

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